


For the Dust to Still

by newamsterdam



Series: Hurricane Verse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Depression, Hetalia Kink Meme, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Paralysis, Recovery, Self-Harm, Slow Build, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liberating France is not the hardest part. As England struggles to help him through the last stages of the war, he comes to find that France isn't the only one who needs support. De-anon from the Hetalia Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written between 10/15/2014 and 12/15/2014 for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/84399.html?thread=512356271#cmt512356271) at the Hetalia Kink Meme: "For whatever reason, France got terribly hurt and need someone to take care of him. However, he is the type of person who hates to show his weaknesses in front of others. Thus, he tries to resist the other nation's care and do everything by himself but failing. Both France and the other nation are frustrated, still the other nation manages to make it work in the end."
> 
> This has been edited a bit for grammar and internal consistency, but is otherwise a direct repost of the original fill.

They don’t find him until they reach Paris. Normandy is too important, too hectic, for England to risk breaking ranks to search for one man. So he does his duty just as he has been for the entire war, stiff upper lip and deadly precision as he reclaims the last land that ever conquered him. (It _would_ be Normandy, wouldn’t it?) 

When they finally do reach Paris, England grabs one of the resistance fighters, asks his questions in accented French and tries not to sound like he’s pleading. The man—dark-haired but blue-eyed, every one of them has an aspect of their country if you look for it—thinks for a moment and then nods, makes great sweeping gestures with his hands as he spells out directions. 

England looks back at his allies, hedges when it comes to making a decision. America catches his eye and nods, says in a commanding way, “Go secure that side, will you? We’ll head this way.” 

It’s not as if England needed permission, but he’s glad to have it all the same. Normandy should have been draining, but it has reinvigorated him. He’s no longer out at sea, waiting for the next phase of Blitzkrieg. Surrounded by Allies and resistance and his family, he’s on the offensive. But there’s one person missing. 

He grits his teeth and breaks into a run.

Notre Dame has lost its gild but not its grandeur. The stained glass windows are gone, the pews bare as England makes his way up the long aisle. He stops when he spots a figure, lounged in a seat as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.

He’s turned away from England, his neck obscured by the high collar of his black coat. There’s a bright red flower tucked behind one of his ears, a black beret perched jauntily on his head. The sunlight streaming in through the glass-less windows catches on the scraggly tail of blond hair, bound at his neck. 

“There you are,” England says, and he doesn’t sound relieved or grateful. It’s a criticism, a scolding. “You were supposed to meet us at Normandy.” 

He turns his head halfway at the sound of England’s voice, revealing his profile. England hasn’t seen him since he capitulated, since he gave himself over to Germany to save Paris and at least some portion of his people. But the turn of his head, the slope of his nose and the spread of his body—laid out, relaxed, uncaring—are all painfully familiar. 

England watches as France stiffens visibly. 

“I sent my boys,” he says, airily. Normally England would expect those words to be accompanied by some lazy gesture, a wave of his hand. Normally England wouldn’t expect France’s voice to sound so hoarse, so terribly used. 

“And they were a grand help,” England says, because he can’t deny that. “But they aren’t you.” 

The corner of France’s lips that England can see turns up slightly, into a mocking smile. “Careful, Arthur,” he says slowly, and god, his voice sounds like something being dragged over steaming coals, hissing and grating. “One might think you missed me.” 

“More like I expect you to be where you say you will,” England retorts. His voice goes hot and angry, because it’s custom and it’s comfortable. “Or did you want to be fashionably late to your own liberation?” 

France laughs, at that. But it sounds just as twisted and horrible as his words, and something churns in England’s gut. He takes the last few steps towards France, places a hand on his back and doesn’t see the way France ducks his head, hiding his face.

“Francis,” England says, behind him. “It’s not over yet. Everyone out there—they’ll need you. Get up.” 

France shakes his head, curls away from England’s touch and hunches his shoulders. His legs don’t move from their artfully splayed position against Notre Dame’s regal floor. 

“Francis,” England says again, hisses really. “You’re being ridiculous. I didn’t just launch a major offensive to save your sorry arse if you can’t be damned to get up and help us!” 

France just shakes his head. England moves towards him, but France holds out his arm like a fence between them. 

“Stop.”

“What’s wrong with you?” England demands, maneuvering around France. The other man curls up further, his legs not moving as he wraps both arms around himself and hides his face. “ _Francis_.” 

England reaches him and pulls at his arms, tries to force France to meet his eyes. 

“No,” France says, refusing to move. “No, no, stop, just go—”

Angry and worried and scared, perhaps, England grabs both of France’s hands and forces his arms away from his body, pulls them apart like he’s prying the other open. France throws back his head like he’s been stabbed, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open as he screams.

England drops his hands, staggers back and stares. “Good god. What’s happened to you?” 

France stares back at him through his one good eye. The other is swollen shut, an angry gash cutting through the skin from temple to cheek. The entire right side of his face is marred, skin red and angry and unrecognizable. 

France, who so values beauty, who so prided himself on his own. 

England stares, and then his formidable brows narrow over his eyes. “That’s it?” he demands. “You’re hiding here for vanity’s sake? When your allies and your people need you?” 

England thinks about too many nights spent alone on the shores of Dover, looking out over the stormy channel and wondering about the other nation’s fate. Every report of the French Resistance and Vichy government had said nothing about the man himself, and England had looked and looked over the last natural defense he had against Germany and despaired. 

“I cannot help them,” France says, at length. England almost doesn’t hear him. 

“What?”

France coughs, lifts a gloved hand to his disfigured face and covers it. “I cannot help,” he says again. “Arthur. I cannot walk.” 

And it’s only then that England forces himself to look down, to really take in the horrible angle that France’s legs are positioned in. They aren’t supporting his weight. They aren’t bent naturally. Even covered in pants and boots, there is no denying that there is something terribly wrong with them.

France looks down at himself and laughs again, that horrible sound. “I’ve waited,” he says in a broken voice, “I’ve waited and waited for this moment, for you, my dear friends, to arrive. For my own people to reclaim what is theirs. And now…”

He trails off, laughs and coughs and struggles with his words. “I could not have gotten to Normandy. I tried.” 

England has never heard France admit to defeat, before. Not even at Waterloo, not even in the trenches of the Great War. But now France sits before him, bowed and broken and shamed, and England cannot think of what to do with him. How to help him. 

He reaches for France, but the other man slaps his hand away.

“No,” France says, voice hardening. “Don’t touch me, don’t look at me.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” England grinds out between clenched teeth. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital, you need help, you need to let me—”

“ _No_.” 

France’s head dips back at a painful angle, and the red blossom falls from his hair into his lap, shedding petals. He looks down at it and his halved expression stutters. He reaches for the flower and it falls from his lap, onto the ground. He reaches and reaches, but it seems he cannot bend from the waist, cannot get to this small and fragile symbol of his nation’s pride, his own resistance. 

Ignoring France’s protests, England kneels down and grabs the flower. He rises to his feet and leans over France, replaces the flower gently in his hair and avoids touching the scarred half of his face. France flinches, shuts his good eye and tries to block out England’s presence. But England places both his hands on France’s shoulders and holds him firmly.

“I’m here, now. I will take care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Normandy Landings](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Normandy_landings) took place on 6 June 1944.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s disquieting, the way England manages to follow France’s instructions. He doesn’t want to be seen, and so England keeps him hidden. He manages his own affairs, coordinates his resistance through letters and telegraphs and radio. France, as an entity, is obviously present. But as a person, France is no more than a ghost. 

England confers with America, manages to keep his patient’s identity a secret as the younger nation advises him about wheelchairs and debilitated legs. He’s had intimate experience, now, with that initialed president of his.

America and Canada have never been stupid and they are both no longer naïve. So they realize, or suspect, that England knows where France is. But after the first few attempts at questioning, they give up asking. It’s only Canada who lingers, who clutches at England’s shoulder the way he used to clutch at his sleeve, and says _You’ll tell us if we can help, if he needs us_. It isn’t a request. 

England asks himself, as he trudges through the battlefields of Europe with his own soldiers and his allies’, why he keeps his silence for a vain and broken fool, hidden away in Paris. 

\--

The house in Calais had been his, once. He’d never particularly enjoyed staying there, but had done so more to irk France than anything. It had worked perhaps too well, and as soon as France had had the chance he’d wrestled the place back from England. 

The house has been rebuilt since then, of course. Instead of an extension of an old fortress, now it’s a simple cottage by the sea. It has England’s practicality and France’s flair, each muted into something simple and nostalgic. It’ll do, England thinks. 

“I’m not an invalid,” France hisses as England wheels him into the cottage for the first time. “I am fine in Paris.” 

England sighs, heavily. It’s the third time they’ve had this conversation, but the first time they’ve made it out to the cottage. England doesn’t intend on giving France the choice to leave. 

“Of course you are,” he says. Instead of indulgent, he sounds superior. He stands behind France, pushing his wheelchair, but he can imagine the other man’s finely-sculpted brows narrowing dangerously. (He imagines France’s expressions whole and unmarred—as he was, not as he is.)

“Do not condescend to me, Arthur,” France says. His voice has lost all airy pretext; he is furious. “I will tell Charles of this, he would not want me here, away from him—”

“How would he know the difference?” England asks blandly. “You refuse to see him.” 

He looks down in time to see France’s hands clench against the armrests of the wheelchair, his knuckles white. 

“I do not expect you to understand,” France says after a moment. England shrugs; he stopped trying to understand weeks ago, too busy marching through Europe. 

England pauses them in the sitting room and steps away from the wheelchair, over to the window to draw back the curtains. His back is turned to France when he says, with that same blandness, “De Gaulle is the one who ordered this, you idiot. If you weren’t so overdramatic, you could stay in your capital and be nursed by your people, like you’re supposed to be—”

“I do not _need_ nursing. I managed just fine until you—”

England continues as though France hadn’t interrupted. “But instead, no one has seen you for months. Your boss has to frantically ask mine if something has happened, if he’s failed somehow. And I end up saddled with you.” England turns around, waves a hand in France’s direction as though to demonstrate how thoroughly unimpressed he is. 

France dips his head, stares down at his lap. England is still unused to seeing him like this—his hair bound back from his face, devoid of its past luster and artful curls; his clothes plain and serviceable and colorless. England’s image of France is always one of excess—purple velvet and jeweled heels, expensive wine on his lips and a gaggle of admirers surrounding him. Now, he is a sad and pathetic figure. He’s too thin, his face gaunt and wan even where it isn’t scarred. His legs lie useless in the structure of the chair, his clenched hands revealing his utter impotence. He couldn’t leave this place if he tried; it doesn’t matter what he wants or agrees to. 

Finally, France looks up, half his mouth pulled into a sneer. “If this is such a burden, my dear, why are you here?” 

“Because you needed someone to push you in the door,” England retorts. He doesn’t have time for France’s less-than-scintillating conversation. He has beds to make and meals to prepare, medicines to store in the cupboard and then calls to make. 

“No,” France says. “Why are you here, at all?” He gestures with both hands. “Why are you in my country? Why not just go home, and leave me?” 

England startles, looks up as his eyebrows draw together. There are many answers he could give France—Churchill’s orders, America and Canada’s worry, his own nagging and undefined emotion towards the other nation. Instead, he just huffs. 

“You’ve made it very clear you don’t want me here,” he says smugly. “And I do so love it when you don’t get what you want.” 

France blinks once, twice. Then his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. “My dear enemy,” he says, shaking his head.

\--

It is a balancing act. England wakes up in the morning before France, pads his way into the hall past the other nation’s bedroom and into the kitchen. Over his first cup of tea, he corresponds with Churchill and sees to business. With the second, he warms breakfast over the stove. (He never cooks it, himself. The object is to get France to eat, to get the meat back on his bones.) He takes a tray up to France’s room, balancing pastries and juice and medicines and a third cup of tea for himself. 

“Wake up,” he orders briskly, as he kicks open the bedroom door. France lies cocooned in blankets, his scarred face pressed into the pillows in a way that must be painful. He doesn’t stir when England places the tray on the bedside table. England pulls the curtains open and the covers back, leaving France no comfort. Then he sits down in the overstuffed armchair in the corner with his tea and pretends to be patient. 

England has seen France sleep countless times. When they were children, the older nation would curl himself up into a ball as they laid in the grass, under the stars. As he grew older, France became more languid, stretched out and entitled. 

These days, he’s stiff and still. He cannot curl his legs up, so he wraps his arms around himself and shoves his face into the pillows. It takes fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour, before he eventually lifts his head and blinks tiredly at England. 

“If this is an English breakfast, I’m not eating it,” he says, without preamble.

England huffs, sips pointedly at his tea. “It’s croissants and jam from your village, frog.” It’s so easy to keep the caring from his voice, these days, the anger cooled to something distant. “What’s the matter, can’t recognize your own cuisine, anymore?” 

France’s good eye goes wide at the comment, and he opens his mouth to retort but doesn’t say anything. His gaze flicks to the window, and he looks lost for a moment. Just before England can react, France turns away again and pulls himself up into a seated position against the headboard. He picks up a croissant, nibbles at it. 

England doesn’t question France’s lack of appetite, nor the reason he’d be tired enough to linger in bed so long—at least, not until he has to.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s about dusk. England has gone around the sitting room, turning on the lamps, and now the two of them sit quietly and read. For England, it’s mounds of paperwork, a fountain pen poised between his teeth. For France, it’s a German-language edition of _Candide_. England doesn’t know where he got such a book, or why he wants to read it. Since they’ve already fought today about what to eat for lunch and how long France should nap and when he should take his medicines, England decides to let this latest eccentricity go. He’s tired. 

He’s halfway through deciphering a telegraph from America (who never did quite master the concept of STOP as punctuation and not enthusiastic expression) when France tosses his book aside abruptly and rolls his chair back three feet. 

England looks up, scowls. “What?” 

“I’m going to bed,” France announces primly, already maneuvering the wheels of the chair to turn towards the doorway. 

“Wait,” England says, capping his pen and organizing the papers, “I’ll help you.”

“No,” France says, holding up one hand. “I’m fine.”

“Just wait.” He’s already on his feet, papers placed on the couch, steps away—

“ _Arthur_.” France’s voice whistles to a high, exasperated pitch. “If you even try and carry me to bed, I will strangle you. In case you’ve forgotten, my hands still function perfectly.” 

England pauses, strangely hurt by France’s adamancy. He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. “I’m just trying to help, frog.” 

“Don’t.” France says the words lightly, and then he rolls himself into the hallway—slowly, carefully. But he must manage it, because he doesn’t call for help or turn around. 

England sighs, sits back down on the couch and ignores the crinkle of papers underneath him. He still winces, sometimes, when he moves too abruptly. France wasn’t the only one to come away from the war with injuries—England’s ribs were bruised and broken by Blitzkrieg, his reserves of strength whittled down by constant attack. But he’s been healing, little by little, as his people pick themselves up and dust themselves off and carry on. 

France isn’t healing, though, not in the way England expected him to. His legs are still useless, his face just as warped as it had been that day in Notre Dame. He isn’t getting any better. 

England leans his elbows against his knees, his head in his hands. He remembers, suddenly, sitting with Victoria one day. They’d been surrounded by the royal children, and England bounced the youngest on his knee, ruffling the child’s hair. 

_You love taking care of people, don’t you, Arthur?_ Victoria had asked, with that knowing smile. _I think you do it more when you feel lonely._

He’d been with Victoria longest, and therefore she knew him best. Sometimes she cut too much to the truth of things, and he resented her for it. But mostly, he loved her. He thinks he’ll never really stop missing her, the same way he’s never stopped missing Elizabeth. 

But even if Victoria had been right, it’s not as if he’s only here for his own sake. He wants to help France get better, because they’re allies, because Churchill did and does rely on De Gaulle, because—

Because France had been _his_ , damn it, his to toy with and bruise and break, occasionally. He defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, and Louis XIV before that, and every time France has been struck low, it has been England’s doing, at least in part. And that was fine—fair, even—because France did the same things to him. They glared and fought and toyed with one another, and even when one was low, there was the assurance that he’d rise again and the game would continue.

England knows what to do with that France—the one who won’t stay down. He doesn’t know what to make of this one, who laid down and let Germany roll tanks over him, and who hasn’t tried to get up, since. 

It infuriates England, and though he tries to get back to his paperwork, it ends up scattered all over the floor. He clenches his hands into fists, and seethes. 

\--

It’s late when England finally admits defeat and heads for his own bedroom, passing France’s along the way. He almost doesn’t stop, almost gives into Victoria’s voice in his ear, but at the last moment he stops and pushes the door open, peeking inside.

France had hoisted himself into bed, somehow—but he’s lying on top of the covers, in the same house pants and old shirt he’d been wearing all day. His good eye is wide open, staring up at the ceiling. As England steps closer, he sees beads of sweat dripping down France’s brow and the curve of his throat.

“Francis?” England asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

France doesn’t respond, but his entire body is clenched tight, taught as a bowstring. His gaze doesn’t shift, but his mouth falls open and slack—his breathing shallow and erratic.

“Francis,” England says again, voice a little panicked. He places both his hands on France’s shoulders. “Can you hear me?” 

France bites down on his lower lip. His muscles all pull tight, and England winces in sympathy. England tries to shake him, get a reaction—but nothing seems to work. France is in some sort of dream, not quite asleep.

Somehow, they end up like this—England sitting up in the bed, back against the headboard, pulling France half into his lap. France remains tight and unseeing, even as England rubs soothing circles into his back and wills him to speak. 

“No,” France says suddenly, voice raw. “No, it’s not that.”

“Francis?” England asks, trying to shift position to see the other man’s face. But France continues, doesn’t react to England’s presence. 

“I know they’ll come,” France says, “We’re allies. And you’ve come here to settle a score, with me, but you can’t—I’m not weak, he said it was strategy—give something up, save something more—”

England feels an icy fist clench around his heart. France’s voice is breathy and strange—not at all like the elegant, confident soliloquies that England is used to hearing from him. France sounds like he’s pleading, like he’s trying to convince himself of something. 

“They’ll come,” France says again. “My dear allies.” 

England sucks in a breath, holds France close and reminds himself to breathe. There hadn’t been much he could’ve done for France, then, and he knows it. He had been under fire, himself, and trying to convince America to get his ass over to Europe, all while harboring a half-dozen governments in exile. They’d pushed back the invasion multiple times, yes, but England had counted on France’s resilience—on the words of the French Resistance, and how much they believed in their nation. 

“Oh, Francis,” England says, his grip on the other man tightening. “What happened to you?”

France shudders, suddenly, and curls in on himself. England pulls him close, embracing him in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. (And then, their positions had been reversed, hadn’t they? France had seemed so big, and so strong, and now he is a weak and shaking thing in England’s arms…)

The nation’s words dissolve into incoherence, after that, a jumble of names and propaganda and battle plans, all in different languages. England strokes his back, and brushes his hair back from his face, and even trails two fingers down the lines breaking across France’s once-beautiful face. 

England doesn’t count the minutes they spend like that, but it’s a long while before France’s body relaxes. He sighs heavily, tautness leaving him like air being let out of a balloon. “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité,” he breathes. “It’s still true, isn’t it?” 

England stiffens even as France’s eye slides closed, as his breathing evens out and he falls asleep, truly. England sighs, and leans down to kiss France gently on the brow—the same way he did with Victoria’s children, when they had nightmares and had to be held until they fell back asleep. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers into the darkness of the room. “I don’t think half the things we say are ever true.” 

He lifts himself off the bed and tucks France in, brushing back his hair and shifting him so that he’s not lying against his wounds. As England is leaving the room he pauses, eyes widening in realization.

In France’s fevered ramblings, he’d spoken his own language, for the first time since England had found him. And England hadn’t even noticed its absence, until now.


	4. Chapter 4

France does not have a monopoly on nightmares, and so the next morning England wakes up drained and irritable. The black dog haunts his steps as he dresses in staid silence and wanders down the hallway, tugging at the scraggly ends of his hair and willing the world to lose its darkened, blurred edges. 

(The world, as ever, does not oblige.) 

He’s halfway to the kitchen when he thinks to double back and check on France. He remembers the previous night and his cheeks heat—as though he’d been witness to something he shouldn’t have. And so, it’s with reluctance and no small amount of embarrassment that he peaks into France’s room.

“Are you up, yet?” he asks. He’d broken their routine by sleeping too long, after all. Maybe France is sitting up, waiting for him. 

He gets no response. Sighing to himself, England pushes the door open and glances inside—the bed is mussed, pillow indented with the shape of France’s head. But the room is empty. 

England’s heart beats a bit faster as he leaves the room and scans the rest of the house—washrooms, kitchen, living room, closets. It’s uncharacteristically sunny outside as England wrenches open the front door and runs out into the yard. Daffodils and lilies blow gently in the wind, and France is nowhere to be found. 

“Francis!” England shouts his name out into the world, to the sea on one side and the hills of France’s country on the other. “Answer me, you bloody fucking frog!” 

His voice takes on a high, hysterical pitch as he circles the grounds of cottage and continues calling France’s name. He receives no response. After a half hour, he retreats back to the house to search again—but France is still missing, as is his wheelchair. 

England rips the phone away from its stand in the living room and dials all the numbers he can remember down in the village—the grocer and the dairy, the small bookshop and the train station. He even lapses into his seldom-practiced French, asking after his charge in harsh, untempered speech. But each time, the answer is the same— _no, Monsieur Bonnefoy has not been by today_. 

England grits his teeth and tries not to scream. 

Hands shaking, England tries to think of who else to call—De Gaulle? Churchill? Not likely. There’s enough on those men’s shoulders, and the last thing Churchill needs is a reason to be disappointed in his nation. Pride wins out; England does not call. 

That leaves—Canada, America. His brothers. The other Allied nations, who have armies and therefore eyes and ears all over Western Europe. He’ll call Canada first, he decides. The boy at least knows how to be subtle, which is more than England can say for his brother. 

The phone rings twice before Canada picks it up. Immediately, England feels his chest cave in on itself, his heart beating frantically against the heavy weight on it. 

“Matthew… you told me to call if we—he needed you…” 

\--

It’s well past dusk when England hears the front door open. He jumps immediately to his feet, nearly dropping the telephone as he does.

“Arthur?” Matthew’s voice asks through it. “Are you still there?”

“Just, just a minute,” Arthur says, more sharply than he intends. He sets the phone down and wanders into the entryway. 

There, as pleasant as can be, is France. He’s sitting primly in his wheelchair, which is being supported by a young woman with dark hair and eyes. She has one hand on France’s shoulder, and is leaning down to speak close to his ear. He smiles and closes his eyes, tips his head back and seems to let her voice waft over him. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” England is screaming before he realizes it. “Where have you been? I have armies searching for your ugly face all over the country, and you’ve been on a date?” 

France glances up, looking bored through the shadows of his eyelashes. “Jeanne, darling,” he says to the woman. “Thank you for your assistance. I won’t take up anymore of your time.”

“It’s no trouble, Monsieur Bonnefoy,” she says, and though she addresses him formally there’s something fond in her words. It’s the way someone would address a favorite uncle, perhaps. The girl—Jeanne—glances with some derision at England (a true Frenchwoman, then) before turning and heading out the front door. 

For a moment after she’s left, neither France nor England speaks. They simply look at one another, the way they have countless times before—trying to take one another’s measure, gauge reactions and moods and intentions. 

Finally, England breaks the silence. “Where,” he repeats heatedly, “have you been?”

“Orléans,” France says primly, wheeling himself towards the living room. England follows, trying to contain his (entirely warranted) reaction of apoplexy. 

“Orléans,” he repeats dumbly. “And what, you didn’t think you should _tell me_ you wanted to go?”

“No,” France says simply, positioning himself against a wall. Belatedly, England remembers the phone. 

He picks it up and speaks without preamble: “He’s here. He’s fine.” 

“What?” Canada’s voice is startled, if relieved. “Arthur, what’s going on? Why won’t you let—”

“Goodnight, Matthew,” England says in that final way he’d mastered when the other nation was just a boy, and was being sent to bed. With that done, he turns back to France. “No,” England says again. 

“Mm,” France says agreeably, reaching over to the coffee table for _Candide_. “I don’t need your permission, Arthur, to visit my own cities.” 

“Perhaps not, but a bit of notice wouldn’t have gone amiss,” England spits out. His anger rises in waves, and before he knows it he has crossed the room and ripped the book out of France’s hands, tossing it aside. “D’you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you?”

France looks mournfully after _Candide_ , perhaps regretful that it would shatter his deliberately affected competence to go scrambling after the book. He looks up at England coolly, refusing to be intimidated. 

“I never asked you to,” he says. 

For a moment, England thinks he’ll strike France, injuries or no. But in the next moment he realizes something, and takes a step back. “Don’t act as if you just happened not to tell me,” he says. “You did this on purpose.”

France arches one questioning brow over his good eye.

“Oh, yes,” England says, gaining momentum. “You left before I awoke, deliberately! You wanted me not to know. You wanted to see what I would do!” 

“Arthur, I can honestly say that I am beyond caring what you do,” France says tiredly. “You will be here, making me burnt toast, or you will be in London, taking tea with your queen, or you will be somewhere else—and I do not care.”

“I’m not here on some bloody vacation!” England roars. “The entire continent—the entire world—is in shambles, and I should be out there, helping to put it back to rights. But I can’t, because I’m here, trying to get you off your arse and back out there again! But you’ve just—you’ve just rolled over! You’ve given up! You’ve surrendered—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” France hisses in a voice that England has not heard since Waterloo. His doesn’t raise his voice, but his next words are filled with bitter poison. “If you resent being here, then leave. I will call Jeanne and she will make me my toast and then leave me alone. You can go back to being a hero of war. As I said— _I do not care_.” 

England laughs, a hollow and mirthless sound bubbling up out of his throat. “Are you blaming me? For helping to win the war?” 

France’s face is gaunt and scarred and unreadable. “It’s the way the world works, isn’t it? When France wins, England loses. And when England wins…” 

England feels as though he’s been ducked into a tub of ice. “We’re on the same side,” he says, even though that fact is still almost unbelievable, after a thousand years of animosity. 

“My dear ally,” France says with a lazy wave of his hand. England doesn’t know if he’s saying the words ironically or sincerely. 

Uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken, England scrambles for stable ground. “You should have told me you wanted to go to Orléans,” he says, stubbornly. 

“If there’s something you need to know, I will tell you,” France says, turning his face away.

He doesn’t speak a single word to England for two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not really a coincidence that France's citizen is a girl named Jeanne from Orléans, though she isn't really related to the original [Jeanne d'Arc](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_of_Arc) in any way.


	5. Chapter 5

France has always smelt of lavender, for as long as England can remember. (He can’t remember a time before France, before knowing him, even if back then France was Gaul and England had other names, too.) 

During the Great War, France had also smelt of blood and smoke. England remembers crouching in the trenches with him, holding him down by the shoulders to keep him from charging at Germany like a fool. And even then, with their bodies pressed too close and France’s dirty hair against England’s nose, he could still smell the hint of lavender beneath the grime of war. 

“Is it natural?” England asks, not expecting a response. They are in the washroom, and France is lying in the tub as England washes his hair. It is a slow, grueling process, since France keeps moving his head at inopportune moments and still refuses to speak to England. Even now, he just tilts his head back a bit more and blinks. For some reason, heat rises to England’s cheeks. 

“Don’t act like I’m the one being daft,” he snaps, rubbing the shampoo bar between his hands, lathering them. “I’m sure you’ve wondered before, too. You’re obsessed with perfume.”

It’s something else about having a body that isn’t entirely human, England thinks. They all smell of something other than flesh and bone and whatever they’ve encountered that day. Something like an essence, something like a soul.

France tilts his head forward to allow England access to the nape of his neck, and England begins smoothing his fingers through the fine hair there. There are old scars on France’s neck, one particularly prominent one that is only one hundred and fifty years old. England makes sure to avoid it as he massages France’s scalp, digging his fingers in with deliberate pressure. 

“Matthew smells like pine, and maple,” England continues to no one in particular, since France is offering him no scintillating replies. “He has, ever since he was a boy. And snow, sometimes.” 

He can feel France tense beneath his hands, and wonders how many more centuries it will be before Canada is no longer a point of contention between them. Usually he feels triumphant about that victory, but now England sees Canada as a grown man on the battlefield and not a young boy confused between English and French. It is hard to feel ownership over one so independent and strong. 

“Alfred,” England continues, scrubbing behind France’s ears, “is a bit of a contradiction. But then, I suppose he always is. It’s wheat, with him, and steel.” 

France blinks again, and doesn’t comment. 

“And Belgium smells like chocolate, and Norway is a bit like oil, which is strange since he doesn’t have any—” England pauses and pulls France’s hair back from his eyes, making sure to not let the shampoo get near them. Task complete, he sits back on his heels and sighs. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What it all means.”

He’s gotten morose, England knows. But a world war will do that to a nation. He remembers the country house miles outside of London, full of nations in exile. They’d all looked skeletal and worn and he’d wondered if they’d even last to see the end of it. (And England, himself, alone in his room in the dead of night, feeling Blitzkrieg tear his body apart, had wondered if he’d die, too, and if France, far away and surrendered and split n two, already had…)

“But you don’t have to worry,” England says a bit tartly. He lifts the basin of lukewarm water and stares at the suds in France’s fine hair. “Even with scentless soap, you still smell like lavender.”

With a frustrated huff, he dumps the basin over France’s hair and takes perverse pleasure in watching the other nation sputter. 

\--

After two weeks, England has had enough. The phone call comes in the morning, and by mid-afternoon he’s dressed properly—trousers and ironed shirt, waistcoat and jacket. France is in the living room, again. He’s moved on from _Candide_ to _Don Quixote_. England looks down his nose at the Spanish, but France doesn’t seem to mind it. 

“I’m going out,” England announces abruptly. “Try not to fall over and die while I’m gone.”

France tilts his head like he’s about to ask a question. England waits for two weeks’ silence to be broken. But instead, France shakes his head and deliberately turns the page of his book. England curses under his breath and leaves without a glance back. 

The bakery is French, which is a shame, but to be expected. Canada is already there when England enters, and he gets up from his seat and smiles. (He’s never been like his brother, who initiates hugs and slaps on the back without a second thought. No, Canada waits for permission for physical affection, and for some reason England finds himself grateful for that fact now.)

England clears his throat, and takes a seat. 

“It’s good to see you,” Canada says, that soft smile never leaving his face. “We’ve all been worried.”

“You shouldn’t be,” England responds immediately. And then, a bit suspiciously, “Who’s ‘we’?” 

Canada lets out a breathy, abashed laugh. And god, he does look grown up, in his army uniform. “You know—me, and Al, and the rest of us. You really disappeared on us, Arthur.”

England waves a hand dismissively. “Alfred seemed so intent on leading the operation, I thought I’d give him the chance. And I had other things to do.”

Canada gives England a deep and searching look from behind his glasses. “Like looking after Francis,” he says quietly. 

He can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, I s’pose there’s that. A thankless task if I ever saw one.”

Across the table, Canada looks like he’s hoarding his patience. “I’ve seen De Gaulle, you know. They haven’t set up a new French government, yet, but it seems like they’re on the way there.”

There’s a question hidden in Canada’s words. England longs for the days when his colony wasn’t half a foot taller than him and far too perceptive for his own good.

“If you have something to ask, Matthew,” England snaps, “why don’t you just come out with it?”

Canada sighs, and pinches his nose above the bridge of his glasses. He looks down at the table for a moment, but when he speaks again he meets England’s gaze. 

“I shouldn’t have to ask,” he says firmly. “You called me, remember? Two weeks ago, and you were—you were _frantic_ , Arthur. You haven’t told any of us where Francis is, or if he’s alright, and I can respect your privacy, both of yours, but all of us are healing. And we’re all doing it with…” He trails off, looks embarrassed for a moment.

England’s cheeks are bright red with embarrassment, and he hisses out his next words like a boiling kettle. “You’re all doing it with whom?” 

“With our families!” Canada says, voice rising only slightly. “Netherlands and Belgium have each other, and Norway and Sweden are looking after Denmark, and Al and I have each other. But you’re my family, too. And so is Francis. I want to help, Arthur.” 

“No,” England says immediately. “No, absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Canada asks, sounding more sad than frustrated. 

“I have it under control,” England insists, even though France refuses to speak to him and England wants nothing more than to drown him in the Channel. “He’ll be fine. He is fine.”

Canada tilts his head and gives England a quizzical look. The next thing England knows, Canada is gripping both of his hands tightly. 

“Arthur.” Canada’s voice is soft, pleading. “I wasn’t just offering for Francis. I want to help take care of you, too.”

England tries to pull his hands away, but Canada holds onto him tightly. He tries to shift away, out of his chair, but Canada follows. In the middle of the quiet little bakery, this fully-grown man who has replaced his tiny boy embraces him, cradling England’s head in one hand as his other arm loops around his shoulders.

“You’re so strong, Arthur,” Canada murmurs softly. “I’ve always thought so. I’ll never stop thinking so. But it’s okay to admit it, if you’re scared or tired or lonely.”

“I’m not—” England sputters, trying to pull away from Canada. Finally, he brings his hands up against the other nation’s shoulders and shoves him away. “Stop it—just, stop. I’m not, I’m none of that. I’m here looking after _him_. I still have a proper government, and my people are carrying on. As always. It’s everyone else who has to be put to rights, him especially. And I’ll make sure that he does. We don’t need anyone else. I’ve never needed anyone.” 

Canada looks hurt for a moment, then purses his lips. He raises one hand and brushes his fingers against England’s cheek, and for some reason there’s moisture, there. But that’s impossible, because they’re indoors and it’s not raining. And England—England certainly isn’t crying. 

“I don’t need any help,” England says stiffly, even as he sniffles and rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. “Go back to the front, Matthew. Look after your brother.”

They don’t talk much longer, after that. Canada waits until England has composed himself, and embraces him one last time. But he isn’t so brash as to disobey England’s orders, and soon enough he is gone to catch a train.

\--

In the early evening, England slips back into the house and finds France right where he left him. The only difference is that he has delved much deeper into his book. France looks up when he sees England enter, his good eye narrowing as he searches England’s face. 

England moves to hang up his jacket, then sits down on the couch and brings his knees up to his chest. His head feels heavy, his eyes sore. 

The two of them sit in relative silence, save for the rustle of France turning pages. Then, finally, France speaks into the quiet emptiness of the room.

“You smell like salt water,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Like the sea.”

England looks up, surprised at the sound of France’s voice. But the other nation just nods, and turns another page.

“You always have.”


	6. Chapter 6

He’s awake, but he doesn’t want to be. His limbs feel like lead, weighing him down into the comforting embrace of bed sheets and blankets. It’s so easy, he thinks through a dreamy haze, to just lie here. He doesn’t have anything he needs to be doing—or does he? He can’t quite recall, and he doesn’t want to. This is easier. This is safe. 

“— _thur_!” The voice is shrill, biting through his sleepy daze. His first response is irritation—whoever it is can just bugger off. He’s comfortable, he’s safe. He’s not moving.

“ _Arthur_!” The voice is louder this time, more insistent. It’s richly accented, but hoarse. That troubles him, because it shouldn’t be. He knows this voice as well as he knows his own, and it should be opulent and cultured and heavy with self-satisfaction. Even when its mockery is turned on him, he revels in the sultry ease of that voice. The glory of it, the glory of… France.

Oh, fuck.

“ _Arthur_ …” Again, there’s France’s voice. “ _I need your help_.” 

England’s eyes open abruptly, and he shoots up in bed. Noonday sun is filtering into the room from behind the curtains, and as he looks around it’s still hard to get himself moving. But England clutches at his head and massages his temples, and tries to bring himself to rights.

(And it wasn’t so very long ago that he was sitting on a heavy armchair in Whitehall, willing himself to move. There was rain beating against the window, beating against his head and his heart. He clutched the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. He could not do it; he could not make himself move. 

“I know he’s your friend,” a voice said quietly, sternly. “But we need you, England.” 

He looked up and saw Winston Churchill silhouetted in the doorway. The man extended a hand towards him.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “But I need your help, too. And so does France, now. We all need you.”

England forced himself to his feet. Rain still fell over London.)

He doesn’t bother dressing, just drapes a housecoat over his shoulders and shuffles across the hall to France’s room. He’s glad the other nation is willing to speak to him, again, and so his mind comes up with a dozen different reasons he might need “help.” His hair is out of place. His book has fallen to the ground. The light isn’t hitting his face in the most flattering way. He needs his sleeves turned up. Noon is a perfectly acceptable time to drink wine. France is…

France is laying on the ground in a crumpled heap, trying to hoist himself up by his arms. He’s in the center of the room, laying on the rug. From the doorway, England can see that he’s too far from the banisters of the bed to use them for leverage; there is nothing for him to hold on to. His legs lay under him at terrible angles, his hair falls haphazardly into his face. 

“What have you done to yourself?” England snaps, crossing the room in quick paces. He grips France under the arms and pulls him up, balancing the other man’s weight against himself as he walks them towards the bed. He gets France’s legs underneath him and props him up against the headboard in a seated position. 

France’s chest rises and falls spasmodically, his one eye blown wide and his cheeks flushed with effort. He lets his head fall back and doesn’t turn away when England reaches over to brush the hair out of his face.

For long moments, it is silent. England curls his hands into fists but keeps them in his lap; France inhales sharply and regulates his breathing back down to normal. 

“I fell,” France says. “I must have tumbled out of bed in my sleep.”

Or had a nightmare, England thinks. 

They stare at one another, until, finally: “It hurts, so terribly.” 

England looks up at France and blinks. “What?”

France lowers his head and does not meet England’s gaze. “You are right. I surrendered, and it hurt. Like I was being split it two. And there was Pétain, saying no, no, it’s all for the best. It is the best we can do.” He looks up and his face is entirely too vulnerable. “It was the best I could do.” 

England’s brow furrows as he listens, and he finds himself shaking his head before he even realizes. “No.”

“What no?” France asks with a hollow little laugh.

“No,” England repeats. “You’re being stupid. That wasn’t the best you could do.”

France blanches, and his hands curl into fists in the bed sheets. “Arthur, I—”

“No.” Again, again. “It wasn’t the best you could do. It wasn’t the best you _did_.” 

France bites at his lower lip and does not speak. England leans forward, braces his hands on France’s (still too thin and bony) shoulders. 

“Forget bloody Vichy,” England spits out, shaking him. “That was only half of you! You had your resistance, too, didn’t you? You had De Gaulle and the radio and all the sabotage! I _know_ that was you, it had your smug smirk written all over it.” 

France blinks, the scarred skin around one eye pulling in a way that looks painful. 

“The only thing I don’t understand,” England continues, moving back and returning clenched fists to his lap, “is why you didn’t come with them!” 

He had had a half dozen governments-in-exile living in his house, and occasionally the nations themselves—Norway, Belgium, Netherlands, Poland, and all the rest. It would have been too much to expect those nations to stay out the entire war in Devonshire; England knew they had to be with their lands and people, even if that meant suffering with them. But France… why had France never come? 

He’s laughing. France has his head thrown back, and he’s wheezing, his breath coming in little gasps of roughened hilarity. England stares at him, wide-eyed and slightly scared. 

“Oh, Arthur,” France says, finally. “Would you have liked that? To have me dependent on your hospitality?” 

“That’s not the fucking point,” England grinds out from behind clenched teeth. His cheeks turn deeply red; he is embarrassed. 

“No,” France continues, “it is. I could never ask you for help.” 

With the movements of his upper body, France’s shirt has ridden up. There is an angry bruise forming along one hip where he’d fallen. His hairline is sweaty and his face still reddened from exertion. 

England cocks his head to one side. “You just did.” 

He rises abruptly to his feet, pulling his housecoat tight around him. He stomps out of the room to prepare his tea, and France’s breakfast and medicines. His cheeks burn all the while, and France’s harsh laughter echoes in his ears. 

“Fuck him,” England murmurs. The kettle whistles. 

\--

A few days later, they are together in the living room. It is raining outside, and England has lit the fire. He had spent the entire morning on the telephone, and now he is curled up in a blanket, thoroughly exhausted. He leans into the couch, breathing deep and slow as a cup of tea cools on the end table next to him. He never wants to move again, he has decided.

France is in his chair, pulled up to a table so that he may write letters. He scrawls frantically, and England can just see the page in his mind’s eye—elaborate flourishes and looping letters, beautifully written and evenly-spaced. He has papers in that script, over a thousand years’ worth of them, locked in a box somewhere. 

It’s a peaceful kind of quiet, punctuated only by the scratch of France’s pen, the crackle of the fire, and the dull pour of the rain. England could fall asleep, like this. 

Instead, he asks a question. “Who are you writing to, frog?” 

France looks up, pen against his lower lip. It takes him a moment to say, “Antonio.” 

England’s brows shoot up. “You know you can’t send that.”

France huffs. “Of course I know.” He keeps writing.

“And those?” England gestures at the table, another completed letter.

France finishes whatever word he’s writing before saying, “Gilbert.” 

“You know you can’t send that, either.” 

France puts down his pen and shifts his wheelchair so that he can face England. Hands braced against his knees, he says, “Yes, I know. Good thing you are here, Mother England, to tell me what I can and cannot do.” He rolls his eyes, but given the state of his face, it’s more of a tragic gesture than an ironic one.

England clenches his teacup in two hands, pointedly turning away from France. After a moment, he hears the scratch of the pen as France resumes his writing. England sighs heavily, and sips from his tea. 

Again, after long quiet moments, England speaks. “Do you want them here? Would you let them take care of you?”

He swears he can hear France’s breath still in his throat. The answer, when it comes, is soft and wistful. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would.”

England cannot imagine the strength of that sort of friendship, that would push past fascism and civil war and invasion. He swallows. 

“But then,” France continues, “it is different, with them. What I feel for you is not what I feel for them.”

For some reason, those words are like a vice around England’s heart. The tea is no longer boiling, but it scalds his throat as he takes a too-quick sip. 

(“ _I know he’s your friend_.”

But he isn’t, that’s just the thing. He could never explain it to Churchill, but France has _never_ been his friend. They have been enemies, for long stretches of time, and allies for blinks of the eye. Once, they were lord and vassal in some twisted way. Once, they were both beholden to a larger empire. They have always existed in relation to one another, but they have never been—will never be—friends.)

“So what is it,” England asks quietly, “that you feel for me?” 

Perhaps France does not hear, because he does not answer. England does not ask again. France finishes writing his letter; England finishes drinking his tea.

France shifts in his chair and looks at the bookcase. “Arthur,” he says, “will you grab something for me?”

England is loath to move, but he nods and gets to his feet. “Which one,” he calls over his shoulder, expecting to reach for Montesquieu or Hugo.

“Burke,” France replies lazily.

England pauses, and pulls _Reflections on the Revolution in France_ from the shelf. He has a first edition of it, back home, because Burke was one of his. He looks back at the bookcase, at the rows of neatly-arranged French titles that France has not touched in their weeks of living here. England bites the inside of his cheek and tosses the book to France as he heads back to the couch. 

He doesn’t sit back down, however. He grabs his blanket and goes to the fireplace, curling up in front of it. He drifts, comfortable and warm, aware of France’s presence but not disturbed by it. 

At some point, France rolls himself in his chair over to the fire. He is very close, and in England’s languid state he does not bother to tell him to back off. He feels long, graceful fingers stroke through his hair gently. 

“I never knew what I felt for you,” France says quietly. Maybe he thinks England is asleep, and cannot hear him. “I never knew, until I had surrendered and lay, perhaps dying. And all I wanted was to see your face.” 

England knows he should say something, but sleep is curling around his bones and he cannot fight it off. France is still stroking his hair, and it feels too good for him to want it to stop. 

“Why?” France whispers, to the crackling fire and the pouring rain. “Why do I love you?” 

Asleep, England does not answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spain would be considered a danger at this point in time because it was under the dictatorship of the fascist [Francisco Franco](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francisco_Franco). Prussia, of course, is an Axis Power under Germany-- though I imagine Prussia the character as being more involved on the eastern front of the war than the invasion of France.


	7. Chapter 7

Although England wakes up with a terrible crick in his neck the next morning, somehow, after that, things get easier. France is quieter, more subdued, but that makes England’s life easier. When he presents bowls of soup and glasses of juice to the other nation, France takes them without complaint. He sits and reads his books, writes his letters and looks out the window, watching the sea. He asks for England’s help, instead of attempting to do everything on his own.

(The scars on France’s face are as prominent as ever, his legs just as immobile as they’d been on that day in Notre Dame. England doesn’t know what to make of that, even when he undresses himself for the night and glances at the mirror. The jagged lines across his chest have gone from angry red to delicate pink—painful still, but healing. But France is…)

Today, England is preparing a picnic. The weekly supply of food had come with fresh bread and strawberries, and he thinks it a shame to waste them. So he packs everything up carefully—coffee in a thermos, thank god rationing will soon be over—and drapes a thin blanket over the top of the basket. 

He’s well-pleased with himself as he heads into France’s room. He voice is stern as he calls out, “Get up! We’re going out!” 

France is sitting up, and now tilts his head to one side. “Wherever will we go?” he asks, voice almost coy. England pretends his heart doesn’t surge, hearing that familiar lilt to France’s words. 

“Surprise,” England says, gruffly. “What, you don’t want to? You won’t even have to sneak out, this time.” 

“You make it sound like I’m a rebellious teenager,” France says, though he’s already pointing to things in the wardrobe. 

“Well,” England says, grabbing slacks and a sweater, “if the shoe fits.” 

\--

It takes nearly half an hour for England to help France dress—and isn’t that an ironic turn of events, France being helped into clothes instead of helping others out of them—and another fifteen minutes for England to gather coats and scarves and the picnic basket. It’s late summer, and shouldn’t be this cold in Calais, but there’s a frightening chill in the air. 

England had scouted their location hundreds of years earlier, and gone back a few days ago to make sure it was all in one piece. Sure enough, as he pushes France’s wheelchair up the grassy bank, the other nation gasps. 

The view is beautiful—autumn-tinged trees framing a perfect view of Calais’ beach and sea. There’s a dark smudge on the horizon that they both know, deep down in their bones, is Dover. 

“Arthur,” France says, voice breathless. England merely smirks and parks France off to one side as he lays out the blanket and food. 

Maneuvering France onto the blanket proves harder; he can’t sit up properly, nor support his own weight. Eventually they end up like this: England sitting cross-legged, France leaning against his side with his legs folded to the side. It would be, at any other time, a terribly compromising position for either of them. But after weeks of living in one home and relying on one another, there seems to be no room left for embarrassment. Indeed, France sighs as he pushes his head further into the space between England’s neck and shoulder. 

“Oi,” England says, without much heat. “Don’t get fresh.” 

France smirks. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

England rolls his eyes and reaches for the basket, perhaps enjoying the way his movement causes France to pitch forward slightly before he’s able to right himself. But a moment later he’s back, handing France a carefully-prepared sandwich. 

France eyes it for a moment, takes an experimental bite. Roast beef on baguettes, what a contradictory combination. 

And England watches him through narrowed eyes and thinks, say it. Come on, say it. You want to, don’t you, and you can, you can do it, you can call me… 

“Roast beef,” France says, in perfectly-articulate English. “What a novel idea.” 

Something sinks in England’s chest, even as he watches France consume the sandwich in small, careful bites. He huffs, then turns to his own meal, chomping down with great prejudice. 

The cool wind blows around them, tousling two heads of blond hair and teasing the ends of scarves. England drifts, in his mind, closing his eyes to better feel the cold air. 

He’s pulled back to reality by the feeling of slender fingers poking at his stomach. 

“Stop that,” he says, pushing France’s hand away. 

France doesn’t look contrite. “You’ve gotten so thin,” he says, wonderingly. 

“You’re one to talk,” England bites out. It’s true—France has always been slim, but these days he’s downright haggard. His cheekbones are accentuated by the hollowness of his cheeks, his limbs bony, his skin papery and white. By comparison, England doesn’t think he looks half-bad—of course, rationing has taken a toll, but he’s still well-defined with muscle, he’s still… 

“Was it very terrible?” France asks quietly. He’s looking at England so intently, with such _concern_. Like he actually cares, and for a moment England almost considers telling him about dark nights and falling bombs, about being surrounded by family and allies and feeling so alone, feeling like he couldn’t protect them at all, but he had to keep going because… because he _had to_.

It’s all too close to the surface, still weighing down England’s every step. He can’t say these things, and the look in France’s eyes is so raw and genuine that England can’t help but jump back from him. France stumbles, reaching out with both hands to brace himself as he falls forward. But England doesn’t apologize, just scoots further back and looks at France with wide and frightened eyes. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” he demands hotly. 

France is breathing slowly, pushing himself up with great effort. Without England to lean against, he has to continue leaning his weight against his hands. He looks up at England, his once-beautiful face wrinkled with uncertainty, pink lips parted slightly. 

“I just…” he begins, then trails off. He swallows. “I don’t know.” 

England shakes his head, manages to chuckle. “Stupid Francis,” he mutters. “Idiot.” 

France looks up, smile thin. “Uncultured Arthur.” 

And there it is, floating just outside their reach—something normal, a back and forth of familiar insults and comfortable rivalry. England feels as though he can reach out and grab it, a past era, if he just tries hard enough. 

Now, England laughs. “ _Plus ça change_ —isn’t that right, Francis?” 

France purses his lips, good eye narrowing as he thinks. “The more it changes,” he says, finally, “the more it’s the same.”

He smiles at England, expectant; eventually, England smiles back. He moves closer to France and pulls out the thermos of coffee, and they share it. Something like understanding passes between them, as they sit on Calais’ shores and look out at Dover. 

\--

France gets tired so easily (and so does England, but he has less of an excuse and far more pride), and so they head back soon enough. And if France lifts one hand to brush against England’s on the handle of the chair, holding onto him as he gets pushed along, neither of them mention it. 

They’re less than a mile from the house when they both feel it. France’s mouth falls open, and he asks, “Is that…?”

England grimaces. “Must be.” They look at each other, caught on a pregnant pause. Finally, England asks roughly, “Do you want to see him?”

France seems to grow paler, then shakes his head. “I don’t—I can’t.” 

England nods, firmly. He pushes France off the pathway, into the shade of a tree. “Stay here,” he says, as though France could do anything else. Then he’s off, down the path again. He doesn’t hear France calling his name. 

It’s not a long jog to the house, but as soon as England gets there, he stops short. He sucks in his breath and squares his shoulders, and marches to the door like the empire he knows he is. 

“Alfred,” he says, voice a slow drawl, “what the bloody hell are you doing here?” 

America stands there, in full uniform and that jacket he hasn’t taken off since he learned how to fly a plane. His hair is windswept, but he looks—good. Strong, and whole, and for a moment England allows himself to be grateful for that. But as soon as America opens his mouth, that old annoyance is back. 

“Wow, that’s kind of rude. Do you have any idea how long it takes to get here, from Germany?” Hands braced on his hips, America turns so that they’re fully facing one another. England grinds his teeth and tells himself he doesn’t feel small. 

“Yes,” he says shortly. “Because I, unlike you, have a basic understanding of geography. Now, what the hell are you doing _here_?”

For a moment, something like hurt flashes in America’s eyes, behind the shine of his glasses. Then one corner of his mouth pulls up in a wry smile. “Yes, Arthur, it’s definitely good to see you, too! I’m so glad you didn’t get like, terribly injured in the war, or anything.” 

“No one knows we’re here,” England says, ignoring America’s words. “So what. Are. You. Doing. Here.”

America lifts one gloved hand to pinch the bridge of his nose—and England sees, for a moment, his brother standing next to him, doing the exact same thing. 

“Churchill knows you’re here,” he says, almost tiredly. “And so does De Gaulle. And since I’m, y’know, directing troops, I’ve talked to them a lot. And I was just on my way home, to report to FDR, and I thought I’d see how you’re doing.” 

“I’m doing just fine,” England says firmly. “So, now you’ve seen. Have a safe trip across the Atlantic.” 

“What’s your problem?” America asks, brow furrowing. “No one’s seen you in months, and now you’re pushing me out the door? Well, you haven’t let me in the door, yet, but—”

“ _Alfred_ ,” England says, trying for stressed patience but bypassing it entirely. “Did you ever stop to think that there was a reason no one’s seen me? That, perhaps, I did not want to be seen? Or bothered? Or that maybe, I just might’ve been too busy to stand around, reassuring you?” 

America doesn’t take a step back, but the hesitation dancing over his face is a clear indication that he wants to. He purses his lips, sucking in his breath. 

“You’re being a real dick,” he says, finally. “I know we don’t get along much—or ever—but, I thought we were all in this, together. As Allies. Even if Ivan is driving me fucking crazy. And I want to make sure you and Francis are alright, and I thought maybe you’d want to do the same for me.”

“I’ve sent you telegrams,” England says, but it’s a weak excuse. It’s not that he doesn’t care—goddamn it, he’s _always_ cared. But he can still see America as a child, looking up to him, and admiring him. Why would he ever want that golden boy to see him like _this_? Wracked by nightmares and doubts, hidden away from the world, using France’s condition as an excuse…

England inhales sharply. He’s never allowed that thought to come to its logical conclusion, before. 

“Arthur,” America says quietly, and suddenly his hands are on England’s shoulders, pulling him close against a broad chest. It’s déjà vu. 

England squirms against him, pushing him away. But America is impossibly strong, and he can’t manage it. 

“Is this my fault?” America asks. “Is because I was—late? Because you know, I was really _trying_. I swear I was. I wanted to help you guys, I did as much as I could, and now I’m here, and I’m not going to give up until we’ve fixed everything. And then you’ll be okay. Right, Arthur?” 

England sighs and lets his head rest against America’s shoulder. How like him, England thinks, to turn the world’s problems into issues that hinge on him alone. Suddenly, England knows what America needs from him. 

His hands come up to return America’s embrace, and he holds on tightly. “No, Alfred,” he says soothingly. “You’ve done a good job. Heroic, even. We couldn’t have made it this far without you. Francis thinks so, too.” 

He feels the tension in America’s body release suddenly, the way the other nation clings to him even though he’s the one who initiated the embrace. “Really?” he says, voice small. 

“Of course,” England responds. And it’s so easy, to push aside whatever he might’ve been feeling, to let someone else’s problems take precedence. These are things he can actually solve, so it’s so, so easy. 

It’s another long moment before America pulls away, and England turns his head so that he doesn’t see America pull off his glasses and wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He breathes in, once, and then out. And then his trademark smile is back, brash and obnoxious and just where it should be. 

“I, ah, should get going,” he says. “I really do have to get to Washington.”

“Alright,” England says. “I’ll pass along your regards to Francis, shall I?”

“Yeah,” America says, “that’d be great. I’ll be back, too.”

England can’t bring himself to say no to that, so they say their goodbyes and America goes on his way. England heads back to where he left France. And, as he goes, it begins to rain softly down on him. 

It only takes another few minutes to reach France, but this is how England finds him: he’s sitting back in his chair, head tilted all the way back. The rain falls down on him and he makes no move to shield himself. His hair grows dark and damp, and raindrops fall slowly down the sharp curves of his cheeks and down his neck. 

“You’re going to catch pneumonia, out here,” England grouses, announcing his presence.

France looks up, eye slightly red. “Then don’t be gone so long, next time.” They stare at each other; the casual happiness of the early afternoon has faded entirely. The tension is stiff between them, until France lifts a hand and asks, “And how is dear Alfred?”

England just shakes his head and begins pushing France back towards the house, his commentary of America’s visit edited to protect the vulnerability of all those involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon states that nations can sense each others' presences, especially within their own borders. Both France and England are familiar enough with America that they realize he's near. 
> 
> [Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose](http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/plus_%C3%A7a_change,_plus_c%27est_la_m%C3%AAme_chose): a French expression that translates as “the more it changes, the more it’s the same thing.” The shortened versions, “plus ça change,” is a common expression in English.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of self-harm.

England likes to think that nothing France can do will surprise him. After all, for better or for worse, the other nation has been a constant in his life for over a millennium. When France is cruel, he expects it. When France is passionate, he expects it. When France is happy, he tries to change it, but he also expects it. Laughing, sneering, loving, wise, idiotic, melancholic, ambitious, artful France—England knows him better than he ever wanted to. 

“You’re pulling too hard,” France snaps, tugging England out of his thoughts. France turns his gaze upwards and glares at England.

England pauses the brush’s even movements through France’s hair, scowl coming unbidden to his face. “Well stop moving, then.”

“I’m not moving.” And, indeed, he hasn’t been. His recent demure attitude has extended even to this, as he lays his head back and allows England to brush his hair. 

“And I’m not pulling too hard,” England retorts, resuming movement with the brush. France has always been so terribly vain about his hair—the only fashion trend he ever ignored with prejudice was powdered wigs. But now his golden hair lies lank and unkempt, unevenly cut and lacking its usual luster. England frowns as he pulls the brush through it. 

“That _hurts_.” France’s voice goes sharp as he jerks his head forward at the same time as England pulls the brush back. There’s a terrible ripping noise, and then a clump of France’s light hair comes away in the bristles of the brush. 

England stares down at the brush for a moment, at the broken strands of hair, and then back to France’s stony face. France looks back, gaze hard and terrible.

“Just get out,” he orders. 

“Francis, don’t be ridiculous, I—”

“I’ll do it myself,” France says haughtily, reaching out for the brush. “Just go.” 

“No, I’ll—”

“ _Get out_.” He doesn’t raise his voice, and yet it echoes through the bedroom with quiet intensity. England gapes, for a moment, before handing over the brush and turning on his heel. He’s out the door before he can let loose any of the words dancing on the edge of his tongue. 

He ends up at the kitchen table, staring at a stack of letters and telegrams. He doesn’t know why France’s reactions hurt him, anymore—surely, it’s a good sign that he has so much spirit? Surely, this is the way he _wants_ it—the two of them fighting, cutting into each other with spiteful words as though they each are the worst thing that can possibly happen to the other. 

But they aren’t, and they’ve both seen that first hand, now. 

England sighs, because he no longer understands the world, or France, or the relationship between the two of them. His millennium-long constant has evaporated, blown away like smoke. 

He picks at the stack of letters, correspondence from governments and battlefields. There’s a telegram from America (“Arrived in DC STOP FDR has a cold STOP Are heroes allowed to be worried STOP”), a long letter from Canada with long paragraphs about Netherlands’ condition after liberation, and short notes from his brothers, each complaining about the others. Amongst notes from his government there is a letter from India, sharp tension hidden under too-polite words. England massages his temples, and then gets to work.

America needs reassurances and admiration, so that is what England writes back to him. For Canada it is always attention, even if he’d never admit it. So England praises him, and remarks on specific details of his letter. His brothers always get along when England makes himself a target, so he sends them stern orders and reprimands that will get their minds off of each other. For India it’s a promise—just a little longer, just a little longer, even though it echoes hollow in England’s mind. 

It takes him over an hour to get through his stack, and when he’s done England puts aside his pen and lays his head down against the table. He’s so, so tired. But at least, with things like this, there are tasks to complete and objectives to achieve and he understands these people, and how to deal with them. Even as things change, he can manage that much. 

He looks up when he hears the roll of France’s wheelchair into the kitchen, sound distinct against the tile. The first thing England notices is that France had not finished brushing his hair—instead, it is tied at his neck in a messy knot. Without even his thinned hair framing it, France’s face looks sharper—less human, more otherworldly. His good eye is red, and there are scratches alongside the scars around the other—new scratches, pulling at the skin. 

“What’ve you done to yourself?” England demands, rising to his feet. 

France wheels himself over to the table, looking at the stack of finished letters. “You’re writing to Alfred,” he says. 

“I am.” He’s still gaping at France, wondering what to do with him. 

France smiles thinly. “And you’ll get to send your letters,” he says, voice breathy. “How nice for you.”

“America isn’t Spain or a state in fucking Germany.” (Not “Alfred isn’t Antonio or Gilbert.”) 

France hums, turns away from the letters. “I’ve always wondered, you know,” he continues at length, as though he hadn’t heard England’s last words, “whether you loved him.” 

A choked laugh escapes England before he can help it. “Of course I do.” As much as I can, England thinks to himself, and for all the good it has done me. 

He sees France’s hand clench violently against the armrest of his chair, the way his expression locks for a moment before he laughs again—hollow, airy, forced. 

“You could have gone with him, you know. When he came to visit. If that’s where you want to be.”

“What are you talking about,” England says, words coming all in rush. 

France turns to look at him, his expression somehow terrible. “Exactly what I have said. I do not know why you are here. You can go, you know. Back to the front, or to the meetings where they will decide how things will be. You can leave.”

“Why would I do that?” England’s voice is rising, but he can’t help himself. “At what point have I made you think that I want to leave?” 

“Because you’re happier with them!” France’s voice finally snaps, equal to England’s own. And he shouldn’t be happy about that, that France is losing control, but he is. “Because you actually smiled after seeing Alfred! And you were more at peace after Matthew had been to town than after weeks here, with me. And yes, I know about it. You thought I wouldn’t? That my boy could be here, in my home, and I wouldn’t know?” 

“It wasn’t a secret!” England hisses. “ _You_ said you didn’t want to see them! I was trying to respect your wishes, you bloody idiot! And because—”

France’s breathing is labored, his lower lip bitten red between his teeth. “Because of _what_?” 

“Because it’s easier, with them!” England’s hands come down with force against the table, scattering letters and pen and telegrams. “I know what they want from me, and how to give it to them. I have no fucking _clue_ what you want, because you refuse to speak to me! And now you’re… now you’re…” 

France just stares at him, as though daring him to complete his thought. And England has never backed down from a dare from France. 

“Now you’re jealous,” England whispers. 

“Shut up,” France says. His hands clench, again, and then they are in his hair, pulling at strands and pressing down against his scalp. It’s an involuntary movement, and a violent one. “Shut up, shut up, you don’t understand, and you never have—”

“ _Francis_.” England crosses the space between them and grabs for France’s wrists, tugging them gently back. “Stop it. You’re hurting yourself.” 

“As if it would be the first time.” France’s voice hitches somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“What?” England says, still holding France’s hands by the wrists. “What are you talking about?” But of course, he’d seen the scratches around France’s eye, and how else would they have gotten there… 

“Think to yourself for a moment, Arthur,” France murmurs darkly. “About what the word ‘sabotage’ means.” 

He almost retorts that it was France’s word, originally, but then England stops short. He drops his grip on France’s wrists but presses closer. One hand comes up to gently trace the lines of scarred flesh with two fingers. France flinches and turns his head, but that only reveals more of the wound to England. 

“You did this to yourself…” 

France clenches his eye closed, presses his lips together so tight they turn a stark white before he speaks. “You haven’t been on the losing side of an invasion in a long time. I could not allow myself to—to give them what they wanted. A trophy. A pretty whore. I would not be that.”

England’s mouth opens to respond, but no sound comes out. If everyone who’s ever called France vain, England included, could know about this…

“It’s too much,” France continues, voice hitching erratically. “Pétain says one thing, and over the radio it’s another—one of mine, but coming from your shores. And I don’t—I didn’t know, what to do. Knowing what is right doesn’t mean knowing what to do. And then I couldn’t _move_ , I was trapped and I could do nothing and I was _trapped_ , do you understand?” 

England moves to stand between France’s immobile legs, pulling France close against him as one hand cradles his head. “What can I do?” he asks, at a loss. “How can I help?” How can I fix this?

France is shaking, quiet in England’s hold. He presses his face into the folds of England’s sweater and shakes his head. He’s mumbling something, over and over, but as England runs one hand along the curve of his spine he calms, gradually. 

“You already gave me what I wanted.”

Teeth pulling at the inside of his cheeks, England mumbles, “And what was that?”

France sighs, and shifts against him, and England can feel the wetness of tears against his neck. “You came for me, Arthur. After everything that’s happened between us, you came.” 

He’s never heard France sound so vulnerable before—not even the night he had found him calling out his nightmares. Emotion surges through England—akin to the feeling of being needed, but somehow different—and he chokes on his next words. 

“That wasn’t just me, you know.”

“I know,” France says. 

It’s not even the half of it, England knows. Admitting to it doesn’t solve it, doesn’t fix things. But for the moment, it seems like enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England's feelings towards America are meant to be a declaration of fraternal or platonic love, though you can read what you will into that.
> 
> France's paralysis is due to the split between Vichy France and Free France, and the wounds on his face are tied to the sabotage the French Resistance engaged in to combat German efforts.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning-- in this chapter, a character has a seizure.

That night, England helps France prepare for bed and then cannot bring himself to leave the room. France is already lying under the covers, long fingers gripping the blankets, but he looks at England curiously. 

“Are you just going to stand there in the doorway all night, Arthur?” His voice is still gravelly, a little bit strained. But he’s more in control that he had been, that afternoon, and he seems willing to ignore the conversation entirely. 

England isn’t, even though he’s staring down at his feet when he says, “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

France inhales audibly, teeth jutting out over his bottom lip. England looks up; their gazes lock for a moment. And then France chuckles, slow and warm. 

“There’s room enough for two,” he says, drawing back the covers and gesturing to his side. 

For once, England does not question the invitation. He climbs into bed beside France, and after a moment’s awkward shuffling he drapes his arms around the other man, pulling him close. France sighs heavily into the contact, laying his head against England’s shoulder. Lavender and sea salt tinge the air between them. 

It shouldn’t be this easy, but it is. 

“Don’t try anything funny,” England growls at the last moment, though he pulls France even closer as he says it. 

France shakes his head, and England can feel France’s hair against his skin. “Do I look like I’m in a position to _try_ something?” 

“No.” And he wouldn’t, even if he could. England’s grip tightens, France relaxes. 

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Francis.” 

\--

It adds a new layer to their routine, but doesn’t change much besides that. England’s bedroom goes unused, and his clothes end up piled in a chair next to France’s wardrobe. In the morning it is breakfast and bickering, and at night they curl around each other and pretend that it isn’t something they both need desperately. When France shakes with nightmares, England holds him and doesn’t let go. And when tears leak out of England’s clenched eyes in his sleep, France doesn’t mention them the next morning. 

Between them there is a careful balance, of denial and comfort and shallow anger. But it’s no more or less complicated than the other games, the other dances, they’ve had over the years. 

One day in September it rains, a thunderstorm that shakes the house. They lay in bed together and watch the flashes of lightning illuminating the world from behind the curtains. 

When France sags a bit against him, and England knows that he’s just about to fall asleep, England finds his voice. 

“Francis,” he whispers. “Francis, don’t fall asleep.”

The other man blinks open an eye. “And why not?” he asks, tiredly.

England swallows, and then finds his nerve. “There’s something I haven’t told you.” 

France yawns and shifts against his pillow. “I’m not angry about Matthew. You were right, I’m not ready to see him. Any of them.”

“That’s not it,” England says. A clap of thunder roars around them, and England can’t stop himself from flinching, can’t stop the way his legs clench up. When he opens his eyes again, France is staring at him intensely. 

“What is it?” he asks, voice soft as the rain. 

England leans forward, buries his face in France’s neck and whispers the words there.

“What?” France is almost laughing. 

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room. England pulls back, and before the thunder can sound he releases his words in a rush. “I said, it’s not just you!” 

This time, France is prepared, and before they hear the thunder he has wrapped his arms around England. It doesn’t stop England from flinching, but he recovers faster. 

“It’s not just me?” France asks, one hand running up and down England’s spine. 

England bites down on his lower lip, trying to form the words he needs. But it’s—it’s so hard, he feels like he’s drowning. He’s reaching up, but the water keeps pushing him back down. He can’t escape it, can’t break free of it. He can’t come up for air. But he needs to tell France this, because France trusted him with his own secrets. He can’t have the score unsettled between them, at least not when he’s the one owing. 

And then France does the most amazing thing—he reaches out and offers England a hand, to pull him up out of the water.

“I knew,” France says quietly, still stroking England’s back gently. “That day, when you came home from seeing Matthew. You’d been crying.” 

England’s chewing on the inside of his cheeks, his words lodged in his throat. 

France sighs. “I’ve been very selfish, I know. It’s not an excuse, but… I barely know who I am, these days. I do not know what condition my state is in, only that my people are suffering. And when you are here, as strong and stubborn and _British_ as you’ve always been, it helps.” 

And that’s what does it. England pushes himself out of France’s hold, and spits out, “But I’m not!” 

France arches one elegant eyebrow. “You’re not British?” 

It’s a joke, and England could laugh and let this conversation fall away entirely. But he doesn’t. “Oh, shut up,” he groans. “I’m not that strong, and you know it! I may not’ve been conquered, but I didn’t survive on my own. And who knows what would’ve happened if Alfred hadn’t… and Matthew… and I nearly didn’t make it! I wasn’t calm, I wasn’t carrying on, I was barely holding it all together!”

“And you think that makes you weak.” France looks like he’s considering this, his expression thoughtful. 

“I know it does,” England retorts. “You don’t understand, I don’t know why I expected you to—everyone was relying on _me_! I was the last one standing against Germany, and I knew that if I even stumbled, everyone would know. And it wouldn’t just mean that the Germans would swoop in, it would let everyone else think that it was over. It would’ve ruined all of them. My allies, and family, and friends, and then… and you were gone, Francis!” 

Thunder roars, and England lets out a sob. France reaches out for him again, holding one of England’s hands in a tight grip.

“Would it have made a difference?” France asks with a bit of wonder in his voice. “If I had been there?”

“Of course it would’ve!” England beats his fists against France’s chest. “Even when we were in the trenches, it was together. You’re not allowed to leave me alone, you absolutely infuriating bastard!”

“Ah,” France says, rolling over to one side. There’s a conscious space between them, now. “But I didn’t, did I? I’m still here.”

England takes a deep breath, lets the air fill his lungs even as his hands clench tightly. “And that’s why I’m not leaving you,” he says finally. 

France turns his head, looks up at him questioningly. 

“When the whole bloody world needed me, I needed _you_ ,” England spits out, cheeks burning. “So now that I’ve got you back, I can’t leave.”

France exhales, then inhales again deeply. He turns back to England, and he’s smiling—that somewhat ironic, entirely too pleased smile of his. 

“Don’t worry, Arthur. You are the strongest man I know.” He reaches out, grabs for England’s hand and brings it to his lips. “And I will not leave you, either.” 

He’s still blushing, his entire body quivering in anticipation of more thunder (of more bombs, really). But England leans forward and presses himself up against France, and he feels like a child when he says, “Do you promise?”

“Yes,” France murmurs, kissing his forehead. “I promise.” 

\--

Canada sends good news from the front, in his letters. France says, one day, that he’d like to make crêpes. It’s more initiative than he’s taken in weeks, and England’s heart soars as he makes a careful list of ingredients—fresh eggs, berries, cheese. It’s more than most people can get, these days, but they have their sources. It’s a sunny day when Jeanne drops off the basket, kissing France on the cheek before she goes. 

In his chair, France cannot reach the stove himself. So he sits at the table and cracks the eggs, giving England a fierce look.

“You will follow my instructions _exactly_ ,” he says, “and do _only_ what I tell you to.” 

By the stove, England rolls his eyes. “I can fry things, you know,” he says, although no one has ever willingly eaten anything he’s prepared. “I’m not an idiot.”

“No,” France says agreeably, whisking up his carefully-made mixture, “you are just cursed with a distinct lack of talent.”

England turns red and begins to stutter out a response, but stops when he hears a crash. He turns to see France holding trembling hands in front of him, bowl and whisk on the ground, batter spilled over the tiles. 

“Francis…” 

“I… how clumsy. I dropped it.” But he’s shaking all over, and as England looks down he can’t help but feel a pang of loss—such expensive, precious ingredients, and the first thing France has tried to do for himself in months. 

"It's alright," he says cheerily. “We’ll get more eggs from town tomorrow, it’ll be fine—”

“No it won’t.” Eyes downcast and expression utterly haunted, France shakes his head. “It’s not alright. I am…” His voice trails off, and it’s several long moments before he continues. “I suppose I should—would you help me clean up, Arthur?” 

There’s batter on his fingers and splattered across his shirt, and he looks so small and sad. England grabs the dish towel and begins rubbing it over France’s hands, cleaning him off. 

“We could go out,” he suggests. “Go into town, eat at the café.” 

France is shaking his head, still trembling. “No, no. I won’t have them see me like this, not like—”

“What about Jeanne?” England insists, trying to stave off disaster. “You don’t seem to mind it when she’s around, we can go and have tea with her—”

France dips forward in his chair, pushing England away with one hand as he clutches his stomach with the other. “I’m going to be—I’m not well—”

He retches but does not vomit, and England, alarmed, grabs his shoulders to hold him steady. He hasn’t eaten much today, there’s nothing in his stomach for him to throw up, and yet he hacks and his hands tremble and England does not know what to do for him. 

“Arthur,” France moans piteously and then he tumbles out of England's arms, falling to the floor. Even as England kneels down beside him, rushing to turn him over, calling his name, France begins to shake all over. His muscles lock and his eyes roll back, and when England calls out to him he does not answer. 

England pulls France away from the mess on the floor, lays him vertically on the ground and tries to hold his neck steady as violent tremors run through his entire body. His brow furrows as his good eye opens and shuts rapidly, and beneath scarred tissue the other tries to follow suit. England yelps as the skin around France’s eye rips, lids pulling apart to reveal one milky blue eye. A faint trail of blood spills from the torn skin, running down France’s face. 

“Francis, _Francis_ ,” England calls to him, over and over, holding him and waiting for the seizure to pass. “You said you wouldn’t leave! You promised!” 

France’s lips part, and he’s panting as sweat and blood run down his face, mingling with tears that England is crying. 

“Get yourself together,” England pleads. “For once in your stupid, extravagant, useless life, just say what you mean! Do as you say! _Please_ , Francis!” 

It seems to last a lifetime. Eventually, breathing shallowly, England reaches into the recesses of his mind, for a language he hasn’t willingly spoken in front of France in many long years. 

“ _J’ai besoin de toi, François_ ,” he breathes out. “ _Toi et moi, ça ne changera pas_.”

The effect is not immediate. It’s another few long minutes before France finally stills, before England lets go of him enough to press his ear against France’s chest and hear the familiar beat of his heart. He is unconscious—he is alive.

But he does not wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England’s French translates as: “I need you, Francis. You and me, we don’t change.”
> 
> The [Provisional Government of the French Republic](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Provisional_Government_of_the_French_Republic), led by Charles de Gaulle, had been operating since D-day and through the Liberation of Paris. On 9 September 1944, it moved to the capital and officially created a national unanimity government.


	10. Chapter 10

France dreams.

He is young again, tunic loose around his bare legs as he stares up at a tall and imposing figure. He’s being introduced to others like himself—fledglings, newly-formed. But they all take after the man, dark hair and heavily-lashed eyes. They tug at his blond locks and their gazes seem to ask _are you one of them, or one of us_?

He tries to be one of them, even though the words come out wrong when he speaks their language. Eventually he settles on a rhythm he likes, slurred and flowing like water. The man disappears. The boys grow up. He forgets he was ever not one of them at all. 

(There is another boy, even smaller, with glinting green eyes. He never becomes one of them, not really, and the fact that he doesn’t endears him to France in some small, unspeakable way.) 

There is a girl, bright and shining like sunlight. They lay together in fields of lavender, arms cast out to their sides like angels’ wings. He laughs, still childlike. She is somber and hardened, and becomes more so when they leave fields of purple for those of red. She cuts her hair; he lets his grow. She grows rough; he takes to culture. She is killed; he survives. 

(He cries and cries when he realizes she’s gone, and he can feel glinting green eyes watching him. He wants to drown those eyes, drown them in water that boils and burns like the fire that consumed his beloved.) 

There are days of unspeakable opulence and glamour. He learns the art of love as well as the art of war, and sleeps surrounded by riches and admirers. He walks down halls lined with mirrors and sees himself reflected in every surface—perfect, and beautiful. He learns how to paint his face and style his hair; he learns how to walk like a king. 

He spends long evenings in the heart of his city, drinking wine and listening to philosophers talk. They have new ideas, and he drinks from them as deeply as from his glass. He wants to be surrounded by these ideas, to never be without them. He doesn’t realize how much it will cost. 

(He keeps bleeding. He can hear screams from every corner of his heart, and he wants it all to stop. Eventually, with a blade lowered by a soulless mechanism, it does.)

The crown shatters and is reformed and shatters again. He tries once, twice, and a third time to live without it. At last, he thinks it will work. He holds the idea close to his chest, like something precious.

They dig tunnels through his skin and smoke fills his eyes. He lies amongst dirt and grime, fields of lavender and sweet wine long forgotten. There is blood under his fingernails and a gun clenched in his hands. The smell of death surrounds him. 

(The green eyes are never very far away—even now. In tunnels and amongst dirt, there he is, voice sharp and commanding. It’s easier to breathe, when he’s there.)

Finally, there is a gun held to his head and he is led away from open war. They call it house arrest; he calls it prison. He feels himself growing weaker and weaker by the day. Eventually, his legs give out beneath him and he cannot rise again. Rough hands force him onto a bed, and he lies there and pretends he cannot feel their touches on him, their dirty gazes and biting words.

They talk over his head as though he cannot understand them. He laughs, because he could speak German before Germany itself was even an idea. He hears a strong voice, over the radio, and that gives him solace. He whispers secrets to those who are loyal to… something. Not him, perhaps, but the ideas he once believed in. The secrets are carried far, and he likes to think they do some good.

He hears plans to storm the island to the east—his dear, green-eyed constant. That night when they come and talk over his head, he reaches out—fingers soft, caressing—and steals a knife. 

It hurts terribly, and they can’t stop the bleeding, but he can’t stop laughing. 

Eventually, they abandon him, and he lays on the bed and wonders what it might be like to die. He sees an angel at the head of an army, and then an old man he barely remembers. He wonders if death is the same for everyone, or different for their kind. 

It takes the strength of his people, the loyal ones, to set him up at a headquarters near the old cathedral. He plans, he directs, he bleeds, he despairs. Eventually, he begins to hope. 

(He can feel green eyes watching him, even though he has not seen them for some time. As he grows weaker and his hands begin to shake, he lifts his head. He knows he will not be alone for long. He believes it, more than he believes in a fourth chance at a crownless ideal.)

\--

Paris has barely begun to recover. England is once again at France’s bedside, looking out over the city through the window. Every person who walks by on the street reminds him of their nation—waves of blonde hair or twinkling eyes, graceful fingers or sculpted noses. 

“I miss you, you know,” England says to France, who lays unconscious on the bed. “All your officials are too bloody scared of me to put up a good fight.”

He’s alive, they know that much. He’s even healing, little by little. The deep wounds around his eye have finally begun to give way to new, pink skin. England traces the lines with two fingers, and tries to hope.

There’s a knock on the door, and then a soft voice calls out, “Captain Kirkland? The General is here to see you.” 

“He knows nothing’s changed since yesterday, doesn’t he?” England asks, more sharply than he intended. 

“Yes, sir. But he’s still here.” 

“Alright, show him to the sitting room,” England calls out, before turning back to France. His face isn’t calm in sleep—he frowns and sighs, his brow creasing from time to time. England strokes one hand down his face, cupping his cheek for a moment before leaning down to kiss his brow. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.

It’s a half hour later when he returns, dusting off the shoulders of his military jacket as he turns a corner and enters the room. He stops mid-step, freezing entirely. He blinks once, twice, and then yelps. 

France is sitting up in bed, long fingers curled in the coverlet as he blinks at the sunlight streaming in through the window. He turns at the sound of England’s exclamation, lips parting as though he might speak. Before he has the chance, England has crossed the room in three quick strides and thrown his arms around France’s shoulders.

“How fucking _dare_ you,” England hisses into his ear, even as he hugs him tightly. “Just sitting here, as though nothing’s happened at all! Why didn’t you call for me?”

“I’m,” France begins, and then swallows. His throat is very dry. England seems to realize this, because he pulls back a little to reach for the jug of water on the bedside table. He holds onto one of France’s hands with one of his own and pours him a glass of water with the other. 

England gently runs one hand up and down France’s spine as the other gulps at the water. The glass is refilled twice more, and each time France drinks it down without pause. Eventually, he places it aside, breathing heavily. 

He blinks up at England. “Are we in Paris?”

England balances his chin against once fist, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You should be able to tell me that, shouldn’t you?”

France leans back against the pillows and his eyes flutter shut for a moment. England can imagine the beat of his heart, in tune to the rhythm of his capital. 

“We are,” France breathes out, eventually. “How…?”

England’s hand tightens around France’s. “You wouldn’t wake up,” he says, after a long moment’s pause. “You collapsed, and you wouldn’t wake up. And there was nothing I could do for you, so I brought you home.” 

France exhales softly, fingers tugging absently at his blankets. “And the war?”

“We’re two weeks away from Berlin,” England says, the hard glint of pride evident in his voice. “It will be over, soon.”

The other nation sits up, chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate motions. He lifts a hand to his face, fingers grazing softly over his cheek and around his eye. He breathes in and out slowly, like he’s trying to remember how.

“You should be with the armies.” France’s voice is breathy, distant. “You should be there when they take Berlin.” 

“ _We_ will be,” England says, taking both of France’s hands. He holds on tight. “I couldn’t leave without you, idiot.” He tries not to let his concern show in his face, nor let it bleed through into his voice. 

Two blue eyes widen in sudden realization. “If we’re into Germany—Arthur, how long was I—?” 

He cannot lie to France. He sucks in an anxious breath and tugs France close, one hand in his hair and the other at the small of his back. “Six months,” he says, voice thick with emotion he refuse to unleash.

He hears France’s gasp, feels the other man’s arms come up tight around him. He melts into that embrace, at the tangible reminder of France’s very existence, his presence here.

“How have you— what have you— _six months_?” 

England nods, lets out a rueful little laugh. “The waiting wasn’t so hard, this time. I knew where you were, and I could be with you.” 

France can’t help but laugh in return. “Careful, Arthur. One might think you missed me.”

For long months, this room has been the center of England’s world. For even longer, France has been at the forefront of his mind. So it’s easy to dispense with pride, to let pretense fall away. 

“Of course I did, frog,” he says lightly. “I told you, didn’t I? You’re important to me.” 

England can feel France’s fingers curl and clench into his jacket, at his words. There is so much between them, history and war and cordiality and bitterness. Sometimes, it feels as though that can never fall away. They can never get beyond it. 

In spite of that fact, because of that fact, England knows. “The world needs you, Francis. Which is why you’re going to be there, when we finally end this. And…” 

France gulps, like a drowning man desperate for air. “And?”

“And _I_ need you.” England releases his hold on France and sits back, looking directly into the other’s eyes. His cheeks are red, but his words sincere. “You may damn well drive me mad, but there’re worse fates.”

They’ve both seen that, now, on grand scales and intimate ones. France lifts a hand to tug gently on England’s hair, a smile playing on his lips.

“What, exactly, are you saying?” 

England leans forward, presses his lips gently to France’s brow. “I’ll tell you when this is all over, shall I? But for now, there’s someone who’s very eager to meet you.”

“Arthur,” France whines, protesting the change of subject. But then the rest of England’s words hit him, and he pales a bit as he shakes his head. “You know I can’t.”

“You can,” England reassures gently. “And I’ll be with you.”

France looks uncertain for a moment, lost and scared and young. He reaches out for England’s hand; the other nation meets him halfway. 

\--

The next day, France is dressed in simple and elegant black as he sits for tea. At his instruction, England had wheeled him into the sitting room early, helped him onto the couch with the chair hidden away before their guest arrived. 

England hovers by the door when he shows their visitor in. France lifts his head and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling even though it pulls at his healing wound. His gaze flickers momentarily, searching for England’s face—England scowls at him in a way he hopes is reassuring.

He imagines it must be a great deal of acting that allows France to smile knowingly and laugh lightly as the man stands before him. But he’s proud, in a way, that his confident and assured France can still exist, even as an act.

“Hello, Charles,” France says, voice rich and cultured and only slightly hoarse. “I hear you’ve been doing good work, on my behalf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After six months, we're well into 1945. 
> 
> France's relationship with [Charles de Gaulle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_de_Gaulle) is particularly fascinating, but he's not really the focus of this fic. 
> 
> England is referred to as Captain Kirkland because I imagine the nations as having field ranks within their military. England's probably a naval officer, though canonically he doesn't wear that uniform.


	11. Chapter 11

England dreams, as well. That’s novel in and of itself, because for a long, long time his waking moments have been indistinct from sleep, all blending together in a storm of gray and loneliness. The world hasn’t gotten its color back, and it isn’t time to reach out and reclaim lost loves. But when he’s awake, England squares his shoulders and lifts his head—he stands at the head of armies with narrowed brows and fierce eyes. When he’s asleep he’s beside France, again, held and cherished even though the other nation is hidden deep within himself, far beyond England’s reach.

He’s seen the evidence around him for years, now, but it’s during those six months that he finally realizes and believes that life goes on, no matter what the circumstances.

When he wakes up in the morning, a few days after France awakens, England knows that this will be their last day in Paris together. 

When De Gaulle leaves after his daily conference with France, England heads into the sitting room. He fusses with the straps of his uniform, which seem out of place when he isn’t on the battlefield. France is still dressed as a civilian, and that only seems to underscore the point. Since leaving Calais, they have fallen out of sync, with the rest of the world and with each other.

“Arthur,” France says, looking up. He looks a little winded, his voice slightly breathless. 

England takes the chair opposite France’s, inclines his head. “You seem entirely too serious,” he jokes, mildly. 

France shakes his head, his laugh ringing like small bells. “Ah, I’d forgotten. It’s your job to be the humorless one.” 

“Damn right,” England returns. “And you’re the frivolous one.” 

The other man’s lips twitch into a wan smile. For a moment, England thinks France will counter with a familiar insult, and they will spend the next several moments at each other’s throats. He almost wants it to happen.

Instead, France lets out his breath and looks down at his feet. “They leave for Sigmaringen tomorrow. Charles has… _asked_ me to go with them.” 

They both know that bosses don’t ask anything; they order and expect to be obeyed. It may be that sort of thinking that got them all into this mess in the first place, but England knows he would not have survived until now without Churchill. Maybe it’s selfish of him, but he doesn’t want to see France relying on De Gaulle in the same way. 

“You can’t.” The words leave his mouth unbidden, and he hastens to follow them with something reasonable. “Francis, you can’t _walk_. How’re you to accompany an army into Germany?” 

“No, I can’t,” France says easily. “But I must.” 

Two nations stare at one another for long moments. They may have attachments to each other that go deeper than time itself, but at the end of it all their lives aren’t really about themselves. They have duties to attend to. 

“Alright,” England says finally. “Alright, I’ll just ring the PM on the telephone, shall I? Tell him I’ll be waylaid a bit on my way to Berlin.” 

France shakes his head; England’s heart sinks. 

“You can’t come with me, Arthur. It is not for you to fix this.” 

Something bitter rises in England’s throat. “That’s not what you said when we planned to storm Normandy, or invade Paris.” 

“I know,” France says simply, refusing to rise to the bait. That, more than anything, shows England that this time will be different. “And that’s why I must do this on my own.” 

He’s choking on the emotions in his throat, each fighting to reach the surface and color his words. But England forces them all back down, and speaks to the ground instead of looking at France’s face. “I’m sorry I ever thought you a coward.” 

“Well.” France’s reply comes easily, languidly. “I did surrender.” 

England’s taunts from months ago ring in his ears, and he clenches his hands into the olive green fabric of his trousers. 

“But,” France continues, and now England looks up to see his eyes, shining impossibly blue, even the one obscured by scars. “I still intend to be on the winning side of this war.” 

He’s not crying, yet. He refuses to. “I’m sorry, Francis. I tried so hard to fix you, and I couldn’t do it.” 

“Of course you couldn’t,” France says, voice a bit incredulous. “Arthur—we all need help, but we can only ever fix ourselves.” 

England lets France’s words flow over him like cool water. When he looks up again, France is reaching out with one hand. 

“Will you help me up?” 

“Of course—I’ll get the chair.” England’s already rising when France shakes his head.

“No. No chair. Just help me up.” 

England starts to refuse, but the look in France’s eye changes his mind. He heads over to the other nation, braces both his hands just above France’s elbows. France’s hands come to rest against England’s shoulders. 

“I can do this,” France says, voice barely a whisper. England wonders if he was even meant to hear, as France’s body shakes from strain. 

England half pulls France to his feet, and for a moment France stands, bracing most of his weight against England as every muscle in his body trebles. And then his grip slips, and he falls back into the armchair with a wide-eyed, almost comedic expression. 

“Don’t you dare laugh,” he hisses at England, who only thinks to once France has suggested it. And even then, it’s not a mockery. 

“I’m not,” England insists, turning away. “I’ll go get your chair.”

“Yes,” France huffs. “Do that.” 

As England steps into the hall, he can still hear France’s labored breathing. The thought of sending the other man to Sigmaringen alone terrifies him. But at this moment, his heart is full of pride. 

This is something France needs to do, and so England lets him go.

\--

Fate allows them to keep their promises, and not even two weeks have gone by when they are reunited. 

Berlin is alight, buildings crumbling and chaos filling the streets in the form of frantic footsteps and brutal yelling. England steps gingerly through his quadrant of the city, easing the way for his troops. He cannot help but think, however, how easily this might have gone the other way. How easily this could be London, being split into pieces by the Axis Powers. He shudders and tries to force those thoughts from his mind.

As he turns down an emptier street (already crumbled, already burned to ash), he spots a lone figure standing against the last standing wall of what must have been a grand building. The sun is setting, silhouetting the figure in amber light and smoke. His feet don’t sit solidly on the ground; he grips crutches and uses them to hold himself upright. Silver ranks stripes shine on his sleeves, his hair impossibly yellow in the hazy light. 

England approaches with a raised hand and a slow smile. Today has not been a day for joy, even though humans are inclined to think that it goes hand in hand with victory. Nations know better. 

“Francis,” England says, coming to stand beside him, leaning against the wall so that they can both gaze out at a city of ashes and smoke. 

Beside him, France huffs. “That is _Capitaine Bonnefoy_ to you,” he says smartly. When he sees England’s eyes widen at the deliberate use of his language, France smiles grimly. “Don’t open your mouth like that, Arthur, you look like a fish.”

He taps two fingers under England’s chin and forces his jaw closed with a gentle gesture. England reaches out and holds onto his hand, tightly. 

“You’re alright?” France asks, hushed. 

“I haven’t slept in two weeks,” England says blandly, honestly. He hasn’t said as much to the others, but after all this time there’s no point in hiding his weaknesses from France. The other will not exploit them, England knows. 

There’s a bandage wrapped around France’s hand, blood seeping through the cloth. 

“You’re hurt,” England says, brow furrowing. 

“Sigmaringen,” France says, voice a cloudy whisper. “ _Ne t'inquiète pas_. It will heal.” 

\--

“I don’t know why you feel the need to _initial_ everything,” England grouses as the three of them round a corner. “Weren’t the landings enough, for you?” He does not mention the initialed president, because that wound is still new. 

America huffs a laugh. “C’mon, let me have this. I think it’ll really catch on. VE-Day—what do you think, Matt?” 

Canada just shakes his head. “I think we should make sure everything is signed and final before we start naming things.” His tone is mild, but England catches the reproach in his voice. He doesn’t think that America ever will. 

“Matt!” America protests, punching his brother in the arm. Canada retaliates by tugging on the back of America’s bomber jacket, jerking him backwards.

“Come on, you lot,” England says. “I want to get there before the generals.” 

“Why’s that?” America straightens himself and allows his boyish demeanor to melt away for the more serious one he’s had to cultivate over the past several months. “More papers?”

“No, nothing like that,” England replies coolly. He pauses before opening the door. “There’s someone who would very much like to see you, in private. Both of you,” he adds, turning to Canada. 

He enters the room first, stepping aside to allow the boys a chance to see who’s waiting for them. America exclaims his joy in a curse; Canada inhales sharply. 

“ _Francis_ ,” they both say at once, and England could almost laugh. 

Sure enough, there sits France—in military dress, legs carefully positioned and hands folded in his lap. His hair is tied back, his face beautiful though thin and scarred. He looks up and smiles softly, reaches out with both hands. 

“My dear boys,” he says, and he cannot continue for a moment because both of them have embraced him, one on each side. He holds onto them in kind, and his voice is thick with emotion when he continues, “I never got the chance to thank you properly.” 

England comes up behind France’s chair, lays one hand over the other man’s shoulder. Canada and America pull away after a moment, both talking quickly and each holding onto one of France’s hands. 

“‘Together in Berlin’ isn’t a terribly romantic notion.” France lets out an extravagant sigh. America and Canada laugh, but England gives France a sideways look.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he says, heart fluttering in his chest. 

“Just what I’ve said,” France returns. “It should be Paris.” 

England is about to retort that there is nothing _romantic_ about signing a surrender at all, but then France whispers to him in an undertone: “Or Calais.” 

England’s fingers clench on France’s shoulder. “When it’s over, frog,” he says lightly. “When it’s over.” 

“He-ey,” America interrupts. “Are you guys even listening to me? Did you know that Ivan wants the official orders published in Russian? I can’t even believe the nerve of that guy.” 

Canada is still holding France’s hand, smiling very softly with naked concern in his purple-blue eyes. He murmurs something to the elder nation in quiet French, and France smiles thinly back at him. 

He’s covering, England knows. As America prattles and Canada fusses, France is carefully selecting each word and movement. He will not let his boys— _their_ boys—who’ve seen the worst of humanity and depravity over the last few months, also see him as weak or needing. England can appreciate the sentiment, and he doesn’t call France on it. 

His heart feels—full to bursting, straining in his chest. He is tired from this campaign, drained from years of war. But in this room, surrounded by these people, England does not feel alone. 

England knows he has France to thank for that, in a way. But he can also credit this new feeling—this better feeling—to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Sigmaringen Enclave](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sigmaringen#Vichy_French_enclave_.281944.E2.80.931945.29%20) was Vichy France’s government-in-exile following the Liberation of Paris. On 22 April 1945, Free French forces captured the city and put an end to any remaining thoughts of that government’s viability. 
> 
> By May 2nd of the same year, the Battle of Berlin was over. On May 7th and May 8th, Germany’s surrender was formally signed in Reims, France and Berlin, respectively. 
> 
> Remember how I said I like to think of England as a naval officer? Along the same lines, France is definitely cavalry. (And America is air force, but that’s basically canon.)
> 
>  _Ne t'inquiete pas_ : Don't worry.
> 
> England and France’s conversation about “fixing” themselves is not meant to relate to real life people dealing with similar conditions. They’re talking more about the state of their countries and people, since physical and mental conditions aren’t problems to be fixed in that way. I hope that was clear/didn’t come off as insensitive!


	12. Chapter 12

France leans heavily on his cane, one arm around England’s shoulders to keep his balance. They stumble onto the beach, feet sinking into the sand as England tries valiantly to keep them both upright and France ensures they fail, falling heavily onto the beach. 

“Now look what you’ve done,” England snaps. “You’ve gotten sand all over your suit.” Sitting up, he immediately begins patting France down, shaking the grains off of his charcoal-colored blazer. 

“It’s served its purpose,” France replies airily, grabbing England’s wrists and pulling him away from his efforts. France reaches back and pulls the blazer off his shoulders, revealing the pristine white shirt and blue silk tie beneath. 

England sits back on the sand, rolling his eyes. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I even try.” 

“Because you’d be terribly bored without me, Angleterre,” France drawls, lips curving into a smile. 

If France is expecting a token response, it isn’t what he gets. Instead, England’s ears turn a brilliant shade of red as he tugs France close and whispers in his ear, “Yes, I would. Bored, and lonely.” 

France makes a noise like a hiccup, words stuck in his throat. In the time it takes him to collect himself, England rises to his feet and leaves France sprawled in the sand. He sheds his own jacket, then his shirt, folding them and placing them down on top of France’s blazer. England would have never thought it possible, but France is blushing. England looks down at his bare chest and shrugs.

Wounds have faded to scars, over the course of the last year. Now, there are thin white lines across England’s chest, marking the shattering force of Blitzkrieg and other injuries. England imagines that the worst of it will disappear entirely, with time. But even now he doesn’t mind what remains. 

“Are you going swimming, Arthur?” France asks, laying back. He uses his hands to reposition his legs more comfortably. 

“Hm.” England looks up at the autumn sky, the sun overhead and the clear blue ocean. “Not quite. But don’t worry, you’re coming with me.” 

“I don’t think so,” France says, hands digging into the sand.

Sometimes, England swears he refuses just for the sake of being difficult. He rolls his eyes. “I sat through an entire bloody ceremony christening your new republic, and celebrating your five thousandth constitution. You can get off your arse and come swimming with me.” 

“You said it wasn’t swimming!” France jabs a finger at him, as though he’s won. “And don’t mock my constitution, you’ll hurt her feelings. She’s very special. I worked very hard on her.” 

“Will you shut up?” England reaches down and grabs for one of France’s feet, pulling off his shoe and sock. France sputters, but England completes his task and closes in on the other. He repeats the process with himself, rolling up his trouser legs for good measure. Then he grabs both of France’s hands and hoists the other man to his feet.

France sways on unsteady legs, gripping at England’s shoulders so as not to fall over. England smirks, and steps backwards, forcing France to follow with him. They leave cane and jackets and shoes in the sand, and in a crab-like scuffle England leads them back towards the ocean. 

Both men gasp a little when their feet hit the water, cool waves lapping about their ankles. England, however, continues to set the pace, grip firm on France’s arms as he walks backwards into the ocean. Soon, they are up to their waists in it.

“Arthur,” France whines, pouting. “How is this _not_ swimming?” The water soaks through his white shirt, revealing a torso that’s fuller than it had been, a year ago. Still slender, still a bit too thin, England thinks. But better. 

“We’re walking,” England says smartly. And then, he begins to pull away, out of France’s grasp.

“ _Arthur_!” The other nation cries out, reaching for him. “Don’t you dare—!” 

But England moves beyond his reach. France looks like he might panic, for a moment, and England closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them, again, France is staring at him in wonder. 

“I’m floating,” he says, voice turning into a twinkling laugh. 

England smiles. “No, you’re walking.” He extends a hand. “Come, Francis.” 

He looks astonished at himself, but France manages to follow England deeper into the water. Eventually, they are up to their shoulders. 

“Are you going to tell me what the point of this is?” France asks. But he’s smiling, clearly enjoying himself. 

England reaches out with one wet hand and cups France’s face, fingers brushing his scar. France does not flinch. 

“I wanted to be here, in the Channel, when I told you this,” England says. He lowers his gaze, suddenly self-conscious. 

Beneath the water, France’s hands settle on England’s hips, holding him steady. England looks up and smiles, though his ears have turned red yet again. 

“I’m not an easy person,” he says, biting down on his lower lip between words. “I’m—I’m anxious, and stubborn, and sometimes I just want to melt down into my bed and never wake up. I don’t think that will change, even though I’m trying.” 

“ _Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose_ ,” France murmurs, his grip tightening on England’s hips. “Arthur, I know. I don’t want you to change. I don’t want _us_ to change.” 

“I know.” England swallows, then readjust his hands so that they rest against France’s cheeks. “I know, I _know_. And that’s why—even though some things do have to change, even though I can’t stop them—I think I always will love you, Francis.” 

“ _Oh_.” France inhales sharply, eyes fluttering closed. He leans in, and England closes the gap between them. When their lips touch, their kiss tastes of the sea. The waves mist their faces and shoulders, but they feel only the sensation of one another for a single moment. France pulls back and murmurs against England’s lips, “ _Je t'aime aussi._ ” 

England laughs, a watery and indistinct sound. France hums, low in his throat, and leans against England as though he’s the only thing in the world that can keep him upright. (That isn’t true, anymore, but France won’t forget when it was.)

“I won’t be easy to live with,” England says, as though daring France to walk away. 

“You think I will?” France laughs, and throws one hand back to gesture at the shore. “Arthur, we have lived together. And we’re still here.” 

“Yes, we are,” England says, eyes straining to see their small house, nestled on the shore of Calais. Since they are facing one another, France is turned towards Dover. “We are, together.” 

“Yes,” France murmurs, lips against England’s brow. “We’re together now, so we’ll take care of each another.” 

\--

“ _You’re the finest thing that I’ve done—_  
 _The hurricane I’ll never outrun_.  
 _I could wait around for the dust to still_ ,  
 _But I don’t believe that it ever will_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On 13 October 1946, the Constitution of the French Fourth Republic was adopted by the French government, officially ending the period of France’s provisional government. The Constitution was France’s fourth republican one. England’s not really one for constitutions, and probably gloats all the time about how much more stable his government is since France’s revolution(s). 
> 
> Title and ending lyrics lovingly stolen from the Hush Sound’s “[Hurricane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UM3-jCfuvG8),” which doesn’t lyrically have much to do with this story, but sets the mood for the whole thing.


End file.
